Battle of the Antoran Gates
by Ihsan997
Summary: With the Burning Legion backed into a corner, the minions of Sargeras make their last stand against the forces of Azeroth. A single gate is all that separates heroes from the Burning Throne, and whichever side controls it can control the course of the war. Told from the perspective of both Azerothian heroes and Legion commanders. 10 chapters.
1. Perspective from Azeroth

In the depths of the Vindicaar, a death gate opened up. One of several portals from the order halls, nary a soul noticed as a lone armored soldier walked through. Among the throngs of draenei workers, the death knight turned back to see Sally Whitemane, one of the Four Horsemen, staring at him from the other side of the gate with her dreary eyes.

Her tired visage mismatched the iron in her words. "The Deathlord is pleased with your progress and alerted the notables to your presence," she droned in a lifeless voice. "Earn respect for the halls of Acherus or don't come back." As was her habit, she let the gate close before he could reply, causing the man in black to once again wonder how different his service to the Deathlord was from his service to the Liche King.

Sighing despite not needing to breathe, he took his leave and walked through the halls of the draenei ship - the visual design was easy to follow, as if designed to allow easy access and movement. In the main hall, he saw a measure of commotion among several of Azeroth's leaders hovering over what appeared to be a command desk. He'd seen the same scene play itself out in countless other settings to the point where he wondered when it would end. As he'd done many times before, he reluctantly approached the glowing circular table without a word and waited for the half a dozen or so people to calm down.

A demonic-looking purple elf with a face twisted into a permanent sneer seemed to aggressively question even those who weren't opposing him. "The Felfire Armory has been sundered by the leader of the Unseen Path; if we don't act now, the Legion won't give us another chance to strike," the eyeless man whose civilization summoned the Legion in the first place insisted.

Turalyon, who the man in black had fought both with and against, shook his head. "We can't act on information we received only ten minutes ago; our forces need more time."

More of those gathered around appeared as if they wanted to say more, but the well-known Archmage appeared to recognize the man in black for all the wrong reasons. "Look, look, this is the one we sent for," Khadgar said while waving for the man in black to draw nearer.

Alleria tried to calm the others down as well, speaking about the newcomer as if she actually remembered him. "Yes, he's not lost a battle since the Knights of the Ebon Blade sent him to us at the Broken Shore. I believe he should be involved in this."

Illidan's eyebrows waved as if he were going through the motions of an eye roll. " _Another_ voice clamoring to be heard?" he asked incredulously.

Not realizing that she'd felled the man in black in the Second War just as he was about to behead Khadgar, Alleria continued pressing the issue. "Illidan, this is Lazare Garamonde. The one who reinforced the contingent from Skyhold when they were befallen by the sneak attack last week."

"I _know_ who he is."

Also having forgotten the man in black personally, Khadgar joined the chorus. "We need every sound-minded field commander we can find, especially if we decide to act now. The Deathlord has sent him to us specifically to unblock the gates for the rest of our forces to assault the Burning Throne; _somebody_ needs to clear those gates." Khadgar stared up at Illidan, silently pleading for his peer to rescind his opposition. Just as silent, the horned elf refused to affirm the point out loud, merely ceasing his opposition.

With all of them silent, eyes eventually turned to Velen, leader of the ship and once leader of the planet. The sage looked at the others as if requesting permission to speak - all the others save the dark newcomer.

"Lazare Garamonde, field commander of the Ebon Blade, I welcome you. This is our situation; hear my words and consider them carefully.

"The Legion's artillery platform was confirmed as destroyed by the Unseen Path mere minutes ago. The Kirin Tor sabatoged their air support, and the Conclave demolished the gate to the Burning Throne. They've reacted by besieging our ground forces elsewhere in the Wastes, and their troop movements elsewhere on the planet suggest a counter strike is looming.

"This ad hoc council, if we can call it that, is considering a final push into the Burning Throne, but we lack the reinforcements to confront both the Legion battalion blocking our way and the forces of Sargeras within the Throne itself. We can't do both and won't receive further reinforcements from Azeroth for the next few hours due to a Legion counterstrike already underway on the Broken Shore. The Legion's artillery support in the Wastes May have been destroyed, but we don't know how quickly they can perform repairs.

"If we decide to make a final push through the gate now, at this moment...will you be ready?"

So many times since he'd been pulled out of retirement, Garamonde had been made to stand before tribunals and councils of officials, never asked so much as how he was doing before being given orders. Velen was the first person to actually consult the knight in ebon plate before sending him in to a war zone; the novelty was downright endearing. The irony, however, was that after having his future made a plaything for higher ranking officials since this war had begun, Garamonde found himself without significant words to share once he was finally given the opportunity to speak.

"How many?"

His question to answer a question caught the others off guard, and a few of them shared curious glances among themselves. Velen, however, seemed to understand.

The sage leaned closer, but didn't lower his voice. "You're asking how many troops are amassed at the gates of the Burning Throne?" Velen asked for confirmation.

Illidan's sneer grew more pronounced. "Endless," the demon elf interjected.

Irritation marked Garamonde's voice as well. "How many?" he repeated.

"The Legion knows no end," Illidan said.

" _How many_?" Garamonde repeated again. "How many troops comprise this battalion and what are their divisions?"

"You don't know what you're dealing with," the horned elf said dismissively.

"I know that I'm dealing with a force I've defeated every time I've faced them," Garamonde answered, grabbing the attention of the others despite his own distaste for the appeal to authority. "I know I'm dealing with a proper army and not attacking scattered demons in the darkness, nor relying on the power of deities which can bleed to send down miracles on a handful of chosen heroes...

"And I know that I have more experience commanding organized companies of regimented, uniformed soldiers than half of you at this table." He pulled a sheet of paper which had been tucked under his belt along with a ball point pen sold to him by an inventor in Dalaran. He began to jot down notes, but quickly spoke again lest anyone attempt to argue about his past military positions.

"So... _please_. If I'm to be the sacrificial lamb of this operation, allow me to perform a field commander's job properly. Allow me to measure, then to calculate, then to judge, then to plan...because that's how a pitched battle between two armies on open terrain is actually conducted.

"How many?"

Angered by the insolence of a nobody in terms of Azerothian politics, the Betrayer relented for reasons only he was likely to understand. Garamonde assumed that what won Illidan over, as it had won many others over, was the fact that the death knight clarified that it was _he_ who would absorb the brunt of an enemy's attack so the others could safely charge in thereafter.

"Two contingents of the battalion in the north and the south; we have companies from the Horde and the Sentinels to face those down respectively," Illidan said, the altered man's sneer dissipating up ever so slightly. "The final contingent in the center is two-hundred infantry strong, three quarters of which are felguards; the rest are imps. Each unit is managed by a shivarra or a mortal warlock, respectively. The troops outnumber yours by a factor of two. You will have no support in the time period during which most battles start and finish."

Garamonde wrote everything down by hand, the only one at the command table to do so. With his primary critic sated, the others actually watched at the speed with which the undead human performed mathematical functions. When both sides of his sheet of paper were covered in writing, he held it up to examine it.

"I will clear the gates in less than two hours."

"Good, that's good," Khadgar said with relief, though Alleria and Turalyon both shot him skeptical looks. Illidan only stared at the death knight, any emotions other than derision unreadable on such an unchanging face.

Velen, however, appeared sincerely relieved to an extent that Garamonde wondered how heavily the conflict must have weighed on the elderly leader. "Praise the Light...praise the Light," Velen whispered with his weary eyes closed. He looked at Garamonde, addressing him with a respect neither the Deathlord nor the Four Horsemen ever did. "We will provide everything you need...but you must leave right now."


	2. Perspective from Nathreza

On a foul, profane disc floating over the surface of Argus, a demonic coven spoke over a live image of the planet formed with glowing fel lights. The group of six, half Eredar and half nathrezim, had reached a breaking point.

"Our aerial and artillery support has been lost; we can't afford the fantasies of pure zealotry at this time," the dreadlord Diabolikos said, punctuating his words with the slightest hint of frustration as he manipulated the glowing lights by dragging his talons over the projected image.

The airborne meeting was a combination of hot and cold, with the speaker of the dreadlords confronted by that of the Eredar in a manner that was unbecoming in comparison. Decarabia, his longtime rival, aggressively reversed the maneuvers he'd demonstrated on the projection as if challenging him to try the movement again.

"Our covenant with the Dark Titan does _not_ allot for a collapse in our defenses," she insisted more fervently. Her fingernails glowed with fel energy and left traces of her power in the air as she scratched out images of draenei and Azerothian troops on the ground.

Despite knowing better, Diabolikos entered into a debate with a zealot. He knew full well that, even their personal enmity aside, Decarabia was as unwilling to listen to reason when her faith was challenged as the rest of her kind. He also feared that, were she left to dominate the discussion, they would experience further losses in their most desperate hour.

"Faith in our lord's vision is the fuel of our war machine; said machine still requires a pilot. The mortals are within reach of our final defenses as we speak. To leave the Antoran Gates undefended would demonstrate an unfaithful lack of rationality."

Decarabia's opposition grew fiercer. "To cease in our destruction of this insolent world would demonstrate an unfaithful lack of resolve. The Dark Titan has promised to rescue all realities from the threat of the Void; his will is truth and there is no path to knowing truth outside of it. This," the Eredar said pointedly while sticking her finger in the center of a projection representing defenders of the gates, "is cowardice."

To the relief of Diabolikos, his elder intervened on his behalf, and with an uncharacteristic lack of subtlety that ensured the Eredar fanatics would get the point. A voice so laced with several levels of context that it would even grant Archimonde a cause for reflection spoke, altering the images in the projection in the process.

"I believe our forces are sufficient in number, even in such a critical hour, for the successful execution of both tactics," Mal'Ganis said, carefully enunciating his words to slow down the pace of the conversation without leaving any pauses long enough for interruptions. "The only solution yet to be chosen, indeed our purpose here, is to apportion duties of command. We are more than sufficient in number and capability. Let us decide now and end this mortal annoyance."

Decarabia at least had the sense of respect for colleagues to direct her sense of disagreement toward other than Diabolikos. Socrethar must have recognized the need for swift decisions as much as the nathrezim did, for he was equally swift in moving to adjourn.

"They will fall as have countless others; our master's will must be done in all corners of the multiverse. Let my colleagues and I lead the charge against their exhausted forces on their own planet. Closing all warp gates in the Broken Isles will render their mustered forces useless; their capital cities are ripe for invasion due to the drain on their material and personnel."

"Socrethar, your valor is as much a gift as your cunning," Diabolikos said. The flattery which could work on Eredar in the appropriate situations earned him an irritated peripheral glance from his fellow, Lothros, and he feared his interjection would prove too costly in terms of favor from his own kind.

To his utter shock, his opponent chose an entirely different route of attack.

"Only two commander's are necessary on Azeroth; neither Northrend nor Pandaria are targets of any import," Decarabia said with a feigned calm that none of the dreadlords were fooled by. "If there is to be an assignment of troops here, no matter how ill the intentions behind that may be, there must still be a member of the higher command present."

A wicked heart strained by the realization that he'd overplayed his hand pounded in Diabolikos' chest. "You wish to participate in a mission you so uneloquently deemed as cowardly?" he asked, attempting to embarrass her with false incredulity. Unfortunately, such a reaction would only succeed on a target which possessed a measure of shame.

"If you insist on pursuing a goal so ignoble yet involving so many elite troops - for I know that the felguards of Antorus are more experienced than those you've commanded on other planets - then our leadership will surely ask what measures were taken to assure the lowest possible loss of material and troops in such a fel-saturated zone. The justice of the Burning Legion is incompatible with the reckoning I could face were I to allow such an operation to occur without such assurance."

Decarabia's long-winded reply to a simple yes-no question was but a taste of the soliloquies she was capable of delivering when she felt strongly that she knew better than a potential rival for influence in the ranks. Fearing both what other demands she'd make as well as the events on the ground, Diabolikos elected to remain quiet. As much as the sound of her voice elicited a visceral, almost mortal reaction in the form of a desire to respond, he knew that such an action would result in nothing but a longer response from her to each word he could possibly utter.

Fortunately, his fellows were quick to seek an escape from the time sink that was Eredar fanaticism.

"That is an excellent point. If you're able to apportion our amasses forces at the gates ahead of time, it will grant us the time to better focus our defense strategy," Mal'Ganis replied, speaking far more genuinely than Diabolikos had managed to. "Lothros, your accompaniment of Decarabia to the battlefield would be most auspicious. Pentatharon is already there now, and the two of you can assist Decarabia as she sees fit."

Lothros shot another sideways glance, this time fueled by shock rather than ire. That their superior was using him as a tool for the benefit of Diabolikos wouldn't be a detail soon forgotten, but the latter was willing to grasp at whatever straws of coolness he could. Were he to remain in the vicinity of Decarabia any longer, he wasn't sure his usual veneer of slyness would retain its shine.

Decarabia appeared as eager to rid herself of Diabolikos' company as he was to rid himself of hers. That marked two victories at the expense of Lothros.

"May the Legion's plans continue to succeed due to those who truly put faith into action," Decarabia said with the resentment tactfully absent from her voice. It wasn't likely lost on the others that she refused to look at Diabolikos as she spoke to the two other dreadlords.

"Of course," Lothros replied with barely concealed resentment.

Socrethar was the first to begin teleportation away from the disc, though Lothros and his fellows followed suit. "In the name of the Dark Titan, amen," he replied just before he disappeared in a spark of fel flame.

With Lothros and the Eredar gone, Diabolikos found himself alone with one of the highest ranking members of his race in the Legion. Mal'Ganis stared at the omega-rank dreadlord while Diabolikos himself stared at the surface of Argus. The amount of flashing lights and explosions had greatly decreased, giving way to pitched battles and random skirmishes as the mortals dig trenches and set up ramparts. The scene would have been mesmerizing had Diabolikos not found it so disturbing.

"Our artillery has been disabled...the fel bats have been culled..."

"Circumstances prohibit words of comfort," Mal'Ganis said as he joined his subordinate by the edge of the disc.

"I know."

"Then you also know that your eternity and that of the Legion are intertwined. All we collected on Nathreza...all the knowledge of a thousand planets, knowledge we could have used to remake the multiverse in the master's image...all of it has been lost beyond spacetime."

Diabolikos felt an emotion, a secret shameful feeling, that a mortal might be tempted to define as sorrow in his old, demonic heart. "I know," he repeated.

There was smoldering fire somewhere deep in the throat of Mal'Ganis. The shadow which normally covered one of their people's finest seemed even more concealing. "The Army of the Light are the most prominent pawns of the Void Lords, if they but knew the fate which the Burning Legion wishes to rescue the multiverse from...and if the green fire of purification is extinguished now, all that is sane will be lost." Mal'Ganis actually rotated his neck slightly, a more overt sign of directed attention than Diabolikos had ever seen from him. "This is the not the beginning of the end of you fail; this is the end itself. The zealotry of the Eredar will not save our master from the combined forces of these creatures...this is the greatest crisis of our eon.

"Make your name in the registry of world's which Nathreza will begin again. We must not fail."

Mal'Ganis teleported away, leaving Diabolikos on his own above the writhing planet. Felfire and searing chasms had been replaced by frost, natural lava from the core of Argus, and spontaneous growth of Azerothian plant life. Pillars of light arced from the disc's elevation to the surface as anchorites and vindicators incinerated the Legion's ground forces. Even with a personal backup plan, the dreadlord has been too invested in the ranks of his fellow demons to simply flee without a fight. At the bottom of the hierarchy, he'd been mocked and scorned by his peers; even Mal'Ganis had once ordered him tortured for a century due to a failure in a different star system millennia ago.

But those millennia meant something, even to a demon. Manipulating his trinket, Diabolikos teleported to the gates of the Burning Throne to make his people's last stand.


	3. Agonizing Formality

The gates of the Burning Throne were high, tearing at the skyline of Argus even more violently than the Dark Portal tore at Azeroth's. Dark grey mountain ridges tinged with seeping fel energy provided the natural cover of difficult terrain, leaving only the heavily guarded gate as the option for the heroes of Azeroth and Outland. Even when the ranks of demons were too far to be seen by the naked eye, those gates stood like profane skyscrapers announcing the last stand of the Burning Legion. Had Garamonde not been so focused on doing his job, he might have felt an upswell of pride for being first in line to meet his glory or his end at the foot of the fallen titan's abode.

His deathcharger trodded forward until it reached the top of a hill, allowing him a better look of the battlefield. The terrain was flat and even, possibly for the ease of demonic celebrations and festivities, or for another other demonstrative purpose. The Legion must not have expected to be on the defensive on its own turf - as an opposing commander, he couldn't have requested easier terrain to lead his troops on.

Rising from the darkness of the sunless landscape, his army of minions followed. A hundred strong, the armored troops carried their crossbows and spears, marching without fatigue and halting without delay. Skeletal humans, orcs, and even a few hobgoblins and draenei - how the Ebon Blade has raised undead draenei was a particularly amusing conundrum - all lined up behind him. Their eyeless sockets glowed with the bright blue of cold, bloodless death, staring at the demonic ranks hungrily and ignoring the spires of the iron gates.

His ghoulish laborers and val'kyr battlemaiden moved closer to him, and Garamonde waved down one of the creepy crawly humanoids. "My spyglass," he ordered, holding his hand out as the rotting laborers handed him the device. But it was not the enemy he was inspecting.

As the dignitaries on the Vindicaar had promised, Garamonde's company was flanked in both sides by tenuous allies. On the north side, a slightly larger mass of Horde troops were gathered, waiting as his were just a mile away. There was already a retinue if dignitaries approaching him, waving their red and black banner but with their arms sheathed as they waved him down.

He frowned beneath his helmet. In all his years of leading troops, the obligatory ritual of greeting diplomats was a process which he'd never learned to enjoy. Were he not in need of the allies on his flanks to absorb the second and third companies of demons, he would have led the charge with his troops already.

Two orc raiders in their motley but very effective thorium armor reached his position. Their dire wolf mounts panted excitedly, and the greenskins had to tug roughly on the chain collars to prevent the animals from rushing straight at the amassed demons. Garamonde felt he'd enjoy the mounts more than the riders.

They pulled to a stop in front of his retinue of corpsy laborers, watching his unmoving skeleton soldiers suspiciously. Perhaps they'd expected his troops to search them for hidden instruments of assassination, or at least expected his minions to take more interest in their arrival. The undead minions were incapable of returning said suspicion, though, and Garamonde saluted them on his own.

"Hail, dark rider," the female of the orc pair said while returning his salutation. "Growl-Greta Gar, chieftain of the Killface Warband, wishes you good luck."

His face concealed beneath his helmet, Garamonde couldn't help but smirk at the quaint names orc marauders often chose for themselves. He looked behind his two visitors, noticing immediately that their company, while larger than his, consisted almost entirely of melee infantry. Even more quaint.

"You May inform your chieftain that her wishes are returned."

"May your blades never dull!" the male raider added, grinning as excitedly as his wolf.

"May yours remain sharp as well."

The female pumped her first in the air. "Lok'tar regar!" she hollered as if expecting a reply.

Already irritated by the echo chamber at a critical battlefront, Garamonde sought a means of escape. In addition to his five mounted officers, he had two swift riders for relaying commands. Judging by the disorganized nature of the Horde proper, he estimated that they wouldn't be in formation for another twenty minutes; he'd lose nothing by sending his fastest troops to return the greeting and invest proverbial stock in his relationship with another commander.

"My two messengers can accompany you to send my personal greetings to your chieftain," Garamonde said.

On cue, his two messengers approached the group without further orders necessary. Their mangy wolves were far less energetic looking that the dire wolves of the Horde despite matching their speed, and the formerly green complexion of the riders had turned to a shade of dusty grey darker than even the Dragonmaw clan. As his two undead orc raiders met the very alive Horde orc raiders, he prayed that his diversion would rescue him from a pointless round of boasting and self-aggrandizement.

The faces of the two Horde orcs went from shocked to repulsed to accepting in a manner of seconds. The male Horde orc waved his hand in front of his undead counterpart's face, searching for a reaction which never occurred.

"I...well...of course. Growl-Greta will be glad to receive your messengers," the female orc replied hesitantly. "We have necrolytes in our ranks, we're cool," she added cautiously, as if Garamonde was about to accuse her of being racist against undead.

He nodded to them as they left with his messengers in tow. "Lok'tar," he called after them. He couldn't begin his charge without the presence of both of his messengers lest he lose one of his two modes of communication. However, if he could avoid more agonizingly boring formalities, then the sacrifice was worthy.

The deafening screech from his pet gargoyle informed him that he hadn't quite gotten past the pre-combat rituals just yet.

Wincing due to the pitch of the sound, he looked to the quasi-sentient winged ape thing to see what it was so excited about. His minions hadn't taken up arms yet, so he assumed there was no clear and present danger, but he certainly needed to know if anything was amiss among his ranks.

All at once, a flash of purple, blue, and green appeared on the hill opposite the Horde forces, also about a mile away. Pointy ears and eyebrows marked the revealed army as that of the Sentinels, obviously having shadowmelded until they reached their position. Garamonde was grateful that the other contingent of allies were a people less given to idle chatter. He was ungrateful, however, that their messengers had tried to sneak over to his position under the cover of stealth. The sharp screech of the gargoyle caused the night elves to reappear in between the ranks of his skeleton soldiers, clasping their sensitive ears and breaking ranks among the three of them approaching his position on foot. Both of the women who constituted part of the messenger crew grasped for their weapons, and a crow which had been flying overhead landed and turned into one of the menfolk. They all appeared surprised both by their exposure and by the lack of a reaction from the undead troops, but they quickly refocused on the commander of those troops.

One of the warriors stepped in front of the others. She looked unsure of how to address the death knight and unable to hide her displeasure.

"I, Silviel, speak for Priestess Tinalith, commander of Serenity's Song," the lithe night warrior said in a voice with a sliver of overdramatized nobility.

Garamonde looked to the organized ranks of elves and back to the messenger. "The commander of this company sends his greetings to the commander of yours," he replied.

The exchange would have ended there had the eyes of the male elf not fixated on one of Garamonde's laborers. Though he didn't notice any distinguishing features, the crow druid appeared especially disturbed by that specific ghoul, perhaps having known the individual in life. Garamonde has long been used to such reactions, but there was a deeper resentment resonating from the three purple fey creatures.

The spokeswoman of the group didn't shift in posture or facial expression, but the way her voice dropped caused several of the skeletons to reach for their side arms, unnoticed by the elves.

"We know what your organization did to the Red Dragonflight. You and the children of nature both have an interest in the Legion's demise, and on Argus, you will have safe passage." Her already shadowy features darkened as she spoke in an even lower tone. "On Azeroth, there will be no safe quarter for any of you."

Unsurprised and unimpressed, Garamonde fought to maintain his civilized composure. "I will relay your message to my leaders," he replied before turning his head away. A more polite end was unnecessary.

The three elves cautiously took their leave, avoiding the ranks of walking dead as they returning to their contingent. Runa, Garamonde's val'kyr and the company's standard bearer, maintained a similar polite facade to that of her master, but her irritation was clear.

"I can ambush those three when they're tired after the battle," she offered quietly.

Garamonde stared at the dark elves, as he preferred to call them, as they sent another group of messengers to the Horde. "We might not have grounds to do so yet," he replied flatly.

"When will we have justification?" she asked, itching for a fight in an uncharacteristically eager manner. He assumed the proximity of the enemy had riled her up - it had riled him up to.

He narrowed his eyes at his elven allies of convenience. "That depends on how far they go," he replied acrimoniously for more reasons than one.

Truth be told, he was also horrified by what the Deathlord had done to the Red Dragonflight...and the Bronze, and Undercity, and even the Witherbark, all without provocation. However reluctantly, though, he was a member of the Knights of the Ebon Blade, and he would be faulted by the world for the actions of others. Again.

He shook the thoughts out of his head. By force or not, he was in charge of the Blade's infantry corps. He had a job to do first and foremost. And when he saw his undead orc messengers returning to his company, his patience with formalities has worn thin.

"Runa, blow the war horn."


	4. With Friends Like These

Diabolikos passed beneath the gates of the Burning Throne as he flew, watching his personal retinue as they marched into position. Roughly two-hundred felguards stomped their boots on the stone grey ground, riling the gregarious gaggles of imps swarming around them. His shivarra commanders barely noticed him above, but his mortal warlocks waved him down nervously. They were more excitable than demons, and unbeknownst to them, there were no plans to help them ascend into demonhood themselves after the battle. His distaste for Azeroth has grown so much that he was happy to betray even his own human and orc servants simply to satiate his ire at the most resistant planet he'd ever seen.

Well, perhaps the second most resistant after Earth, though Diabolikos was likely the only member of the Burning Legion who knew about that planet. And the entire ordeal that led to that knowledge was far, far in the back of his mind at the moment in which he exited the gates and landed among his officers on the flat plain beyond the gates.

He intensely disliked walking in to a battle with such short preparation time. The mortals had lined up on the hills overlooking the plain, obviously itching for a fight in their short-sighted impetuousness. His own soldiers had only just arrived to their positions, and all around Argus there were reports of contingents being ambushed by the miserable Light and nature worshippers without warning. Even as row upon row of felguards saluted him, he couldn't quell the first sense of true worry he'd felt in a long time. The ranks passed him by, their boots sending vibrations in the ground as they reached the shivarra leading the march and ending it at a safe distance from the grey hills, should have brought him a sense of comfort. The random felbat corpses falling from the sky, however, and the exploding Legion assault ships under attack by Kirin Tor dragon hawk riders, prevented such reassurance from taking hold in his mind.

A mile to his right was the contingent of Lothros, an equally large company of felguards and satyr braying and shouting across the plain. Unlike Diabolikos, Lothros was a tactician rather than a strategist. The relatively impatient demon thrived on gut reactions and improvisation, and Diabolikos could almost discern his figure as he stood on a palanquin and dictated orders to officers. Coupled with the demon's obvious ire at having been forced to escort an uncouth Eredar to the field for Diabolikos' benefit, Lothros' general demeanor meant that he was unlikely to have anything polite to say were messengers to be exchanged. Diabolikos shooed his own warlocks away and hoped the three gathered companies would all be able to simply eliminate the mortals and move on from the whole ordeal.

Pentatharon, another of his fellow nathrezim, was commanding a similar company on the other side of the plain. A man of few words, Pentatharon was of similarly low rank in the chain of command, akin to a version of Diabolikos less plagued by doubt and more accepting of his position in the hierarchy. If Diabolikos could count on Lothros to at least ignore him, he could count on Pentatharon to send a simple message with a wave by the latter's standard bearer.

Except the group approaching him from Pentatharon's position didn't include a standard bearer. It included several wyrmtongue slaves carrying the personal affects of an Eredar.

"Seriously?" Diabolikos muttered when he recognized Decarabia floating toward his position.

Given the commanding role of her race in the hierarchy, he couldn't refuse her visitation. He shut his lips tight as he ground his molars together, failing to come up with an excuse for her to move on elsewhere.

Ever given to a sense of pomp beyond what her fundamentalist people were used to, Decarabia refused to carry her gear, which oddly consisted of a few boxes of relics, talismans, an entire sacrificial altar made of solid concrete, and what appeared to be a podium. For giving speeches.

Her exhausted wyrmtongue slaves collapsed at the back of the confounded dreadlord's company, gasping for air. Diabolikos flicked the tip of one of his wings when he noticed his own laborers - all of them mortal fools from Azeroth - moving to assist the little red slaves. The mortals understood his disapproval and waited, watching how the scene would play out.

He and Decarabia stared at each other for a few moments. The shape of her face was such that she was always smirking even when angry, and she often used her appearance to a theatric advantage. When the silence dragged on for a few seconds, she furrowed her brow angrily - with that odd, ever-present smirk on her mouth - and raised her arms outward as if to ask 'well'?

Tired of her games for at least three thousand years, Diabolikos was the first to relent. "What can I help you with?" he asked without turning to face her entirely.

"Cut the shit, you know why I'm here," she replied sharply. Her slaves nearly dropped the concrete altar, scrambling to throw themselves under it so it wouldn't fall down and break apart. The contrast between their rushed movements and her stoic, floating figure made her words sound even more final.

"No, Decarabia, I truly _don't_ know why you're here. We have nothing to discuss."

She was already becoming irritated after a few seconds of speaking. True, they hated each other, but he assumed that her frustration at the success of the mortals must have affected her already sour mood as well. "This is not the sort of setting where failure or imperfection will be tolerated. If you do fail - which you likely will judging by your track record - I'll be on the torture rack with you. Socrethar left me here to observe all three companies on my own."

"Yet you choose to park yourself here next to me. Perhaps it is _you_ who should cease the proverbial excrement; what's your real purpose?"

Her smirk actually disappeared into a legitimate scowl. The expression wasn't natural for her, making it look all the more intense. "I _told_ you my purpose," she practically growled at him, putting his demonic jailer bodyguard on edge. "Of the three commanders here, you're the weakest link. Strategic management calls for observation. I don't desire punishment due to your shortcomings."

The measure of truth in her words stung him, but it also backed him into a corner. The last time they'd interacted significantly, she'd trapped him in a galactic prison, curses him with unending breath, and condemned him to the vacuum of the Great Dark Beyond until an outsider granted him aid. Prior to that incident, they'd framed each other for numerous infractions back and forth, slandered each other at Legion planning meetings, and once insulted each other in the presence of Archimonde, who froze them both in blocks of pressurized silicon ice for half a century as punishment. Aside from the instance when he'd thrown her into a pit of swarming insects which ate her to the bone on another conquered planet, she'd gained the upper hand over him in the long term.

Wondering what she was planning this time, he chose his words cautiously. In a technical sense, she could justify observing him to their superiors; he'd have to challenge her in other ways.

"Given our rivalry, the argument could be made that I'll perform better on the field if you leave me to my work. Your presence will only serve as a distraction to the two of us."

"Not happening," she replied without actually considering what he was saying. "You've been left to your own devices on many an occasion prior, and your record is still poor. You can rationalize all you want; I'll judge the situation empirically, thanks."

"And what do you actually plan on doing, Decarabia? You plan equipment and troop allocation. You don't operate in the field. My record might not be perfect, but your track record in this regard, as well as actual training in the finer details of regimented combat, is not existent."

She sneered. "I've been tasked with overseeing this conflict, and I WILL carry out that duty."

"So what does that duty entail? Please, do tell. Aside from carrying your entire reliquary closet around with you, what will you actually **do**?"

"I will...argh! I will oversee your operation!"

"So you'll stand at the back and just watch? That's what Socrethar wanted you to spend your time doing?"

"You know what an observation entails, you worm!"

"But you don't."

Diabolikos was cut off from his archenemy when his personal inquisitor floated in between them. "Lothros is attacking," the usually reserved demon interrupted urgently.

"What?!" both the dreadlord and the Eredar exclaimed.

Diabolikos spun around to face the other infantry company, immediately seeing that it wasn't in the same spot it had been in before. Lothros was no longer visible among them, and the felguards were marching quite quickly. Decarabia actually landed on the ground and galloped up next to her unwilling subordinate, their previous exchange forgotten.

"He wasn't supposed to initiate on his own!" she shouted, scaring away the mortal laborers and wyrmtongue away.

His brain working on overdrive, Diabolikos calculated odds and possibilities of survival. His running feud with the prideful logistics planner would have to wait; he might actually need her assistance. And if the Legion escaped impending doom, he could always drop her own altar on her after the war and blame it on her slaves.

"I arrived last, but I know that Lothros hasn't had time to scout the ranks of the enemy yet; he's charging into the unknown, likely under the belief that he can intimidate the mortals." Diabolikos paused, both to work out more calculations in his head and to bask in the one fleeting moment when Decarabia was allowing him to speak uninterrupted. "The ranks in front of him are Kaldorei; they're unlikely to feel intimidated, especially given the success of the mortals so far."

Incensed more by his comment than by him, Decarabia openly snarled. "No - the mortals have _not_ succeeded. Our master has only lured them into a false sense of security so we may vanquish them on our doorstep! His will be done! Leave Lothros to his choice; his impatience can be reported and dealt with later."

"And Pentatharon? He arrived here first."

"The orcs caught his spies; they also have warlocks. He knows their tactics, however, and will deal with them swiftly. You're facing undead."

"Have you seen how many?" Diabolikos asked.

Still furrowing her eyebrows angrily along with her strangely contrasting smirk, Decarabia seemed to look right past him. Perhaps more due to her fear of being blamed for failure than true reconciliation, she spoke calmly as she offered her support as his superior.

"Lead your troops against the corpses; I will observe them from whence they cannot see. If I can assassinate their officers before I return with information, I will do so."

Out of a similar sense of self-preservation from both mortal marauders and Legion punishment, Diabolikos found answering her without a sense of rivalry rather easy. "We await your return," he said as she became invisible and abandoned her slaves and personal affects to him.

The felguards stirred uneasily as he returned his attention to their ranks, and one of the shivarra unit officers strode over to him.

"The undead have begun the march, commander. Your orders?"

There was an immediacy in the many-armed officer's voice that was worrying. The shivarra were even more fanatical than the Eredar, if less cunning and ponderous. That borderline sense of panic in the eyes of the caste he relied on to motivate the foot soldiers shook the dreadlord more than he'd ever felt.

"Raise the battle cry. We meet them in the field!"


	5. Left Flank Sweep

The val'kyr battlemaiden blew the warhorn, preempting the charge of the southern contingent of demonic forces. The Sentinels would have to absorb the brunt of that area, though given the considerable numbers of a people who depended on force multipliers, the Ebon Blade had little to fear in terms of their temporary allies falling. The only concern of the walking dead was the center of the demonic army, which had arrived late to the battlefield anyway.

The entire company marched forward, all five units side by side. Gertrude Harris, once a dame of the Silver Hand and now an officer of the Ebon Blade, searches in the depths of her partially sentient mind for examples of pitched battles in her past. Her unit was on the far left flank of the company, and she'd meet the enemy first along with the right flank due to the horseshoe formation Commander Garamonde had ordered. He porcelain, doll-like face creaked as her separate mouth cover stretched open, forming the horrific face akin to a fallen angel as she screamed her orders to the foot soldiers under her watch.

"Continue for thirty yards!" she screeched like a banshee.

Walking in pairs, her skeleton soldiers obeyed to the most minute detail. Formed in a block of five by two pairs, her twenty-body unit marched in lockstep exactly thirty yards and halted. The nine orcs and single hobgoblin removed the wide wooden mantlets from their backs and slammed the heavy shields into the rock-hard ground. The wooden legs of the mantlets held them in position firmly enough to resist the heaviest infantry the Legion could through, though the carriers held the mobile cover in place regardless.

The opposing unit of felguards stomped their metal boots into the ground in a pompous show of force, spurred on by the shivarra zealot practically frothing at the mouth as she recited profane verses of demonic gibberish at them. A mortal human warlock attempted to control a handful of imps bouncing around among the ranks, though even at the distance of a battlefield, Harris could see the fear in the living human's eyes. The demons moved in perfect unison, a thundering echo of boot stomps reverberating across the dark field as a sort of territorial marker of the Legion. Harris only felt her desire to enact suffering increase at the recalcitrant display.

She rode her skeletal horse to the right flank of her unit, observing the approach of the demons with keen, icy blue eyes.

"First row load!" she yelled at her troops.

The skeletal humans paired with the orcs and hobgoblin knocked the first round of bolts into their crossbows, working in deathly calmness as they remained under cover behind the mantlets held in place by their partners. Their weapons ready, ten pairs of blue eyes glowed at the enemy, a sign of their readiness.

The demons continued a steady approach, seemingly assured of their ability to walk through walls were they to be ordered to do so. Even to her partially hollow mind, the sight was infuriating for Harris. Counting the paces of the felguards, she glanced at Commander Garamonde at the rear. His val'kyr was still bearing the navy blue standard, a signal that the five officers were free to attack at will.

The first rank of felguards reached the distance of two-hundred yards. "First row FIIIIIRRREE!" Harris screamed, pointing toward the opposing unit with her mace.

The muffled sound of ten crossbows firing followed only for her and her troops, the only indication that the first strike had been made until the shots connected. The crossbows silently projected the arcanite bolts with such force that not even grey flashes of whizzing color could be seen. The first row of felguards had no idea they were walking into their permanent deaths in the fel-saturated wastes of Antorus; the lack of gunpowder or even visible action on the part of the crossbowmen left the third row of the demons confounded as to why the first row fell and the second row stopped marching.

The fight wasn't fair, not that the demons deserved fairness. The crossbow bolts easily pierced thorium where they struck the armored bits of the felguards, punching holes in the armor and breaking apart shoulder blades, femurs, and skulls. Those individual demons who were hit on the bare flesh of their stomachs and chests were impaled so fluidly that the crossbow bolts continued to fly forward until they became stuck in the felguards of the second row, crippling the survivors. The third row, the last ones in the demonic unit formations, stumbled and berated their fellows, clamoring for a fight they didn't realize had already begun.

The shivarra commanding the unit stopped her foul chanting and stared at the rows of wooden mantlets, sincerely shocked that her men could be brought down so easily. As the first row of skeletons reloaded, Harris pointed at the surviving demons again.

"Second row FFFFFIIIIRREE!"

Peeking in between the unobstructed rows of mantlets, the crossbowmen of the second row took aim and fired, the stalwart focus of undeath guiding their aim. The second row of felguards fell as did the first, leaving most of the third row incapacitated when the speeding bolts tore right through the bodies of the initial victims. Enraged, the shivarra grabbed the human warlock by the shirt with one of her arms, yelling at the beleaguered mortal and pointing at the mantlets. The scared traitor to Azeroth fell out of the demon's grip and began waving for the imps to step forward from his hands and knees.

The small creatures were fast, and their bolts of felfire set the first row of mantlets alight. Although the wood was heavy and damp, the unnatural fire started to scorch the surface of the unit's first line of defense. If left to their plan, the miniature hellions would put an end to Harris' victory rush.

"Hold the line!" the undead dame ordered her skeletons as she rode her bony horse toward the enemy.

As quick as the imps were, they appeared frightened by the speed of the skeletal steed and hesitated. Just as the human warlock stood up and yelled at the little demons in Eredun, Harris leaned into her charge a mere ten yards from the enemy. Cracking open the porcelain mask which was the only covering over the muscles and sinews of her face, she belted out the loudest face-melting scream she could.

" **AWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHH**!"

"Help!" the living warlock cried as he turned tail and fled, followed by a stampede of the imps like gophers running off a cliff. Even the last surviving felguards paused and cringed, clearly put off by the psychopomp promising escort to their doom.

"First rank, smother the flames!" she screamed back to her troops, assured that they could now salvage what they could of their defenses without further imp harassment. She could move the first row to the back row later; for now, she had one last task.

"The prophecy must be fulfilled!" the shivarra officer bellowed in Common from the opposite end of the defeated felguard unit.

The sword pointed in Harris' direction was a clear challenge, and the knightly lady's unliving mind focused on a nearly equal target. The shivarra displayed no fear to the very end, performing a sword dance with five of her six arms in a threatening display. Harris charged on the left side, leaning low and holding out her shield arm.

The shivarra's last stand was respectable, if misguided. Though the creature's stature neutralized the mounted knight's height advantage, she hadn't considered the mail barding of Harris' horse. The sword blades bounced harmlessly off of the skeleton horse's protected body as well as Harris' greaves and shield, causing damage only to the horse's skull. Undead horses didn't need heads, though, and it continued riding forward even as half of its cranium fell to the ground. Instead of striking back, Harris grabbed the shivarra by one of the flailing wrists and yanked. The shivarra was heavy and fit, but the undead knight's grip proved too tight.

Bellowing in agony, the shivarra was dragged across the rock-hard ground of the battlefield in Harris' wake. All five swords fell to the ground with metallic clanging sounds, leaving the demon's many limbs to flail about as Harris rode in a circle back around to her own unit. The shivarra's wicked headpiece fell off as well, leaving the demon without her symbol of authority. The last few felguards that could stand up limped back toward the next unit over, seeking refuge to regroup and heal and leaving the skeleton soldiers to shuffle their rows for defensive purposes.

Triumphant after a matter of minutes, Harris threw the battered, broken body of the barely breathing shivarra in between the next unit of demons and that of her fellow officer Delorion Dawn. That she'd defeated the whole unit so easily wasn't enough to satiate her appetite for destruction; she wanted to publicly rob the opposing officer of any dignity as a warning to the ranks of demons next to her which would similarly clash with Dawn's unit in moments due to the horseshoe formation.

"Forsooth, the left flank has been vanquished!" Harris screamed at the top of her rotten lungs.

A hundred voices united in a reply that occupied the whole battlefield, startling all the entire demonic army's remaining imps into backing away: "the Ebon Blade stands together!" the skeleton soldiers yelled in reply.

Atop the hill behind them, Runa, the company's battlemaiden, flew up into the air and raised the silver flag. When she pointed at Dawn instead of Harris, the undead dame understood: she was to bolster her colleague's unit and assist in the destruction of the next demonic unit over.

"All rows close ranks with Dawn's unit!" Harris screamed, hearing and obeying the flag signals after a resounding victory in the opening round of battle.


	6. Right Flank Sweep

Yostis stood on the outer edge of the company, on the right side of the undead ingrates. Her felguards marched forward as perfectly as they'd been trained over the millennia, the sound of their boots singing the praises of the Dark Titan on their way to victory. She could already see the unintelligent eyes of the enemy glowing in the distance, offending her sense of devotion as she seethed over the tool which had been stolen from the Burning Legion.

When her soldiers were nearly charging distance, she strode in front of them, preparing her voice for the hymns of purification she preferred. Her felguards slowed down, safe in the knowledge that they had precious seconds to ready themselves for the coming slaughter of rotting corpses.

She gave her back to their ignoble enemies, facing her unquestioning troops. Elegant beyond comprehension of mortals, Yostis began the slow, methodical movements of her sword dance, a ritual many of the felguards had not yet witnessed. It was an honor bestowed upon few - and there was no better day than the final whimper of Azeroth's wretched parasites.

"No light shines save that which springs from fire,

"The green which obtains from the ingrates ire!"

Her six arms all moved in unison yet separately from one another, weaving a geometric pattern comprehensible only to minds which had existed for as long as theirs. The felguards raised their heads, grunting their rejoice as she began a poem she'd written especially for the occasion. The imps bounced around mainly at the mention of fire, but the felguards truly understood the significance of her words.

Stepping backward again as they slowed their march, Yostis continues her lyric foreshadowing the ultimate success of the Legion and the inevitable progress in the timeline of all history.

"Let not this day fall into waste,

"As mortals fail - always - in their haste!"

A few of the felguards roared their approval, banging their metal gauntlets against their pauldrons in a raucous display of approval. The rage of a thousand years boiled in their veins, preparing to crash upon the shore of the mortals like a tsunami of vengeance for stubborn rejection of the truth. Yostis felt it too - that fast pace of her heart as she could almost taste the heart of a mortal between her teeth. Bearing her pearly whites, she let her hatred for their insolence grow, fueling on her pre-battle oration as her many arms wove a tale of bloodshed on their own. The rhythmic turning mesmerized her audience, demonstrating both the proper methods of combat with blades as well as the interpretive story of success on countless worlds previously.

As the shivarra raised her chin in preparation for the chorus of her poetic verse, she felt uplifted by the absolute certainty of the outcome. They were nearing the end of history and the completion of their master's plan.

"And should we not savor the delight,

"Of the punishment we shall - argh ack ack ack-rrrr!"

The searing pain in her lowest shoulder cut off her words before the should utter them. The feeling of a stab wound immobilized that arm entirely, causing her to slump down in agony as she found any bodily movement increased that pain tenfold. She barely even noticed when most of her front row of warriors collapsed, though the mad dash of the sole survivor to throw itself in front of her certainly made her aware that the second row behind the fallen also contained a fair number of casualties.

In her shock, she found herself unable to issue orders blindly. She spun around to see one of her felguards standing in front of her, watching the ranks of skeletons hiding behind wide wooden shields...two hundred yards away.

"What trickery is this?" Yostis yelled out loud, squinting to get a better look at the enemy. The walking dead proved too fast, however.

"Second row FIRE!" yelled an undead knight leading the ranks of skeletons.

His voice hadn't been audible before, but she faintly heard it the second time at roughly the same second when her bodyguard was killed. She could almost see brief silver flashes racing from the skeletons, but she didn't need detailed visual confirmation to know what was happening.

"Mobilize the imps! Burn them to ash!" she ordered, falling back as best as she could with a crossbow bolt stuck in her lowest shoulder.

The second row of her felguards was wasted, either killed or maimed beyond healing, and she had a seethingly painful limp backward in order to seek proper cover. "Let the wounded shield their brethren from the treachery of the heathens!" she ordered the felguards in the second row who were still breathing.

Although they obeyed, a few of them seemed reluctant to do so, perhaps worried about dying on Argus and being unable to live again. In her anger, Yostis beheaded the most grievously injured of her fallen troops to make a point, sending the rest of the mangled felguards limping toward the enemy as meat shields.

"Forget not our covenant, o worshippers!" she called to the wounded as she watched the skeletons reload. "Lay down your lives if the master's plan demands it! Your faith is your salvation!" She turned to the orc warlock she'd gang-pressed from Outland to join her, watching as the man directed the gregarious imps.

"Return fire...return fire!" he screamed frantically, exciting the imps into a frenzy.

The fire bolts connected, setting the first row of mobile wooden covers ablaze. The casting time of the second round of felfire, however, would prove their undoing.

"First row FIRE!" the undead knight yelled back, sending an icy chill up Yostis' spine when she realized that the first row of skeletons had reloaded.

Her warlock initiate fell first, having been standing out front among his imps. Although the little creatures were too small and low to the ground to be in real danger, they still shrieked and ran in all directions. Yostis had to push past the bodies of her final line of defense as all the felguards fell.

"Success is within our grasp - do you not see the flames?" she asked the panicked imps rhetorically.

The small demons hesitated, shaking in place nervously as they tried to recast their fire bolt spells. Yostis wasn't prepared when the imps finally canceled their spells and fled - not because of their flight, but because of the cause.

A single crossbow bolt from the second row pierced her lungs, tearing through her entire body and landing on the ground behind her when it burst out of her back. She stumbled to one knee while dropping a sword to grasp helplessly at the wound. Her breathing was cut off, adding to the two agonizing wounds she'd already been dealt. The imps may have shouted encouraging words to her during their escape, but she couldn't quite make out the sound. Her vision blurred as the fel flames flickered and disappeared from the wooden shields, extinguishing her hope of individual survival.

She turned around and looked back through the gates of Antorus to the Burning Throne just over the horizon beyond.

"It was...an honor to die...ack...to die for you, master," she gagged as blood dripped from her mouth. "Let my martyrdom...be the br...hurk...bridge to our...vi...ctory..."

Not for the first time, Yostis fell on a field of battle, dropping her five other swords in the process. "We...are...Legion..." she groaned for the very last time before her permanent death.


	7. Undead Demons

Decarabia swiftly floated around the ranks of the enemy, shape shifting into an infant mana ray for the sake of stealth. The light wind was sufficient such that there were already embers and dust particles in the air, so few were likely to notice her disguise. Cursing Lothros under her breath, she resolved to condemn him to a creative punishment after their victory even if he ended up leading them to it. She already had to babysit one incompetent underling that day; she didn't need the headache of babysitting two.

As much as Diabolikos' claim that she wasn't s field agent infuriated her, she knew inside that he was right; he might be useless as a commander, but she wasn't experienced in direct combat herself. Her domain was that of troop movements and allocations, even if she couldn't admit that out loud. Beyond her ability to assess likely routes of travel and the relative firepower of amassed forces, she wasn't exactly the best suited to the task of micromanaging a field commander. And so, despite her distaste of working alongside Diabolikos, there she was, flying in a big loop to the back of the undead company to assess its strength on his behalf.

She counted five units total among the undead, each unit led by a mounted officer. The units themselves consisted of an ingenious composition: for each ranged human infantryman, there was one heavier-boned partner carrying spears and a large, wide wooden shield that could be planted in the ground. The people of Azeroth and Outland seemed to focus on defeating the felguards before the latter could reach the former. In and of itself, the strategy seemed useless considering the Legion's infinite numbers, but the remembrance that their numbers were limited in the fel-saturated environment of Argus tempered her condescension toward the tactic.

The outer flanks of the contingent started to march first, forming the shape of a felsteed's hoof. She'd have to mention that detail to Diabolikos later, lathered in a healthy layer of insults, in case it proved significant. If he stalled with his typical overdone pauses which signaled he had no idea what the Light he was talking about, she'd have to try her luck with Pentatharon and hope the latter could clean up the mess left by her perennial nemesis.

Toward the back of the masses of decayed flesh, Decarabia found what appeared to be the central command. At that point, she slowed down her flight, flitted around aimlessly, and imitated a wild animal in general. She needed time to observe, if only a few minutes, and the stray mana ray wouldn't likely arouse suspicion as long as it left in the opposite direction from which it came.

The undead marched slowly, granting Decarabia plenty of time to flutter around the rear. She could see the leader of the ungrateful unliving in the center of the rear, riding atop his high horse and very much deserving of a righteous smiting. He was less active than Diabolikos was, and even if Decarabia's specialty wasn't in the field, she still felt the undead human to be a lackluster and ignorantly unaware creature. He spoke not a single word as his troops marched, positively silent compared to the soft-spoken but more involved nathrezim she usually oversaw. Perhaps he was as brainless as his minions.

A ring formed around him of dessicated corpses crawling along, several of them carrying various tools and sets of combat engineering equipment. The ghoulish laborers were hideous beyond the creations of the Legion; while Decarabia herself had organized the production of particularly frightening beasts of war, the ghouls were simply flawed and fundamentally broken creatures, falling apart and held together without any sort of logic or symmetry. At least the two flying minions on either side of the commander looked like normal being by the standards of the Great Dark Beyond.

The two sides hadn't met in the center of the battlefield yet; there were precious few moments before the charge was likely to begin since the cavewoman with wings had blown a primitive horn. Decarabia was facing a choice: return to Diabolikos to inform him of her observations and trust that he wouldn't screw this up...or assassinate the enemy commander, then inform Diabolikos of her observations and take total credit for the victory later.

She was so close...so very close. The will of Sargeras be done, she couldn't lose the opportunity.

Flapping her little wings, she tried to maneuver around the mass of walking dead bodies to reach the mounted death knight. There were many tools she had in her arsenal, but her mind focused on whatever was quick and easy. Diabolikos could handle the dirty work; she just wanted to cut the head of the undead snake and beat a hasty retreat. Her powers of shapeshifting were well-honed, and she'd only need a second to destroy the base of his neck with a fel blast. The concussive property would likely knock away his protectors, allowing her to shift into a swifter form and flee further east, distracting the brainless bags of bones even more.

She just needed a split second...the undead horse was trotting at a slow pace. Just one shot...

Shaking with nervous energy, Decarabia shifted back into her true form at the rear so she could draw on her true power. Still levitating off the ground to avoid creating any distracting noises, she felt a bead of sweat drip down her forehead as she drew on more than half of her mana pool. Her fingertips and even her hooves tingled with raw power, thrumming with the very pulse of Argus as her demonic fury charged up.

The ghouls didn't even notice until the gigantic blob of green flame passed over their deformed heads. The fel fireball sailed exactly on the trajectory she'd chosen, aimed straight for the back of the death knight's head. Decarabia grinned so wide that her premolars flashed, ecstasy of service to the destroyer of worlds flowing through her veins. The spell was the most perfect she'd ever cast...

...and it fizzled out harmlessly due to the death knight's magic resistance.

"Educate her," the death knight said arrogantly without even turning around to face her.

"Raa!" Decarabia growled as she leapt back a few paces, her hands aflame with another batch of spells.

The useless sacks of dead meat turned around, crawling like quadruped maggots toward her position. Both hands outstretched, she incinerated one into gristle while launching a concussive fel blast at the death knight again. Enraging her beyond logical description, the man in black turned back a quarter of the way and stuck his hand out, dissolving her spell with nothing but his open palm. Screaming her anger, the Eredar floated to the left as another ghoul tried to claw at her.

With her rear completely open, she was free to retreat at any time. Safe in the knowledge that her escape route was open, she tested her might against the miserable dead human who'd lived only a fraction of her lifespan. Fel missiles exploded onto the ground in front of her, holding the walking corpses at bay while she multi-casted another fel fireball. The sight of a robust albino woman with black hair and wings caught Decarabia's eye as a potential threat for a split second.

"Look here," the valkyrie taunted while waving to Decarabia like a moronic simpleton.

In her anger, the Eredar scowled at the winged warrior while counting down the cast time on her fireball. "Not falling for that, you OWWRRRAA!"

Fury choked in Decarabia's throat along with her own blood in unison with the tearing pain as an object stabbed her in her stomach. The val'kyr's taunt wasn't a challenge; it was a distraction, and one which Decarabia didn't recognize until she was flying through the air. Waving her hand in desperation, she used her telekinesis to push away her attacker, leaving her to fly a few more feet and hit the ground hard. Her shoulder blade snapped out of place, tearing her rotator cuff in three places and leaving one arm bent at an angle behind the baseline of her collar bone.

Pain was her existence as she struggled to shapeshift. The panic of many feet and hooves around her disrupted her spellcast, though, and she realized that open combat in the field was much more difficult than she'd realized. Kicking at the revolting ghouls that scratched cuts into her legs, she rolled onto her unharmed shoulder fast enough to see a putrid, rotting tauren with only one arm knuckle-walking toward her like an ape. The undead minotaur knelt down and grabbed her by the hair with its arm, leaning to drag her back toward the ghouls which chewed on her flailing arms. Her stomach bled profusely, and she knew the tauren's horn must have gored her when it charged. Her demonic healing worked fast, but her injuries were grievous, leaving her in a state of neither dying nor mending.

Using her levitate spell one last time, Decarabia rose above the frenzied ghouls only to keel over when a geist leapt onto her back and shoulders. "Brittany, Brittany I am, best florist! Kill customers!" the undead criminal sputtered like a broken water faucet.

Rotten meat stained Decarabia's tongue as the geist shoved its fingers into her mouth. She gagged, involuntarily opening her mouth enough for the geist to stick a beaker down her throat. "Best florist, grow herbs! Customers DIE! Fun fun!" the geist rasped while forcing Decarabia to drink undead ichor.

Unable to choke on the ichor, favor her broken shoulder, withstand the clawing of the ghouls, and pull against the tauren corpse's grip at the same time, Decarabia collapsed in a terrified heap. Fear replaced pain as her being as she screamed, set upon by the ghouls and geists pulling on her horns and chewing of her fingernails in a dog pile of horror reminiscent of the punishments of the Sisters of Torment. Her heart beat so rapidly that she couldn't tell up from down, and she cried out for the mercy of Sargeras.

"Runa, raise the navy blue banner. Brittany, restrain the Eredar. The rest of you, retreat and keep watch."

"Dark Titan, deliver me from their evil," Decarabia gasped as the ghouls stopped biting her.

The stinky tauren lifted her up with its single arm and left her in the scratchy grip of Brittany the geist. Hanging limp, Decarabia was in so much pain that she was too shocked to realize how bruised her ego was. Bested by not mortals but dead mortal corpses, she could only wonder how she could have been stopped so quickly.

Metal boots clinked on the ground, approaching her slowly. She didn't even lift up her head, too embittered at what must have been a sort of trick. The death knight stopped in front of her, giving some sort of order to the insane geist.

"Evil?" the man in black asked in a deep, hollow voice. There was a sincere tone of surprise in his voice, irritating her even more at having been bested by an idiot. "The Eredar were a people born into the warmth of the holy Light, spared so much discord and sin that we suffered in Azeroth as we struggled to see It. You, a people who chose to forsake that Light, while many of us who were forsaken by It hope so much, from the bottom of our hearts, to bask in It again one day.

" _You_ call _us_ evil?"

Choking on more blood and ichor, Decarabia spat and shivered, curious as to why she felt a slight chill in her bones.

"May you perish along with your shadowy masters," she coughed acrimoniously.

Covered in armor, the dark knight expressed no emotions she could detect. He stared at her for a long time, ignoring even the shouts of his officers in the field as he inspected her.

Finally he moved, holding his staff forward and setting the end down on the ground. The crystal at the top glowed with necromantic magic, sending goosebumps up and down the uncut portions of her skin. Confusion passed into incredulity, and then doubt.

"You jest," she coughed, trying her best to maintain a haughty front.

Speaking with a certainty that shook her faith, the death knight continued to stare at her. "There will be no death for you. You will enter the gates by my side, and then the Burning Throne. You will see the demise of your lord and your Legion with your own blue eyes."

"Blue?" she hacked. "You fool, that which knows no death knows no undeath," she replied, wincing as her eyes burned with yellow fumes.

The death knight thumped his staff on the ground again, sending a painful spasm down the muscles of her back. "Rise," he ordered, and only then did she realized that the geist has dropped her to her hands and knees.

Her vision blurred with heated yellow gas, stinging her nerve endings with the cold. "It's impossible," Decarabia coughed. "Demons can't become-"

" **Rise** ," he ordered again, his voice echoing in her brain as the fumes overtook her vision.

Hissing lowly, Decarabia found her joints pulled against her own will as the pain in her wounds ceased. Her body stopped shivering despite the sudden cold, her sense of touch dulled and her taste and smell lost entirely. Her hearing and vision, however, were clearer than ever before. With the yellow frozen out, her fel green eyes changed to blue, and she found herself unable to scream her rage at her new master.

"This is a trick," she spoke more clearly, swallowing down the ichor without nausea. "Spare me your sick games!"

Ignoring her anger and thus increasing it, he waved for her to follow. Compelled to move, she passed by the ghouls which had ravaged her, feeling their sinewy hands patting her like obedient children now. She reached the death knight's horse and mounted the saddle behind him, watching just as the outer flanks of Diabolikos' company fell to the skeletal crossbowmen.

Unable to resist or even shut out his words, Decarabia could only hiss at him as she realized he'd been telling the truth.

"Sick?" he asked. "So am I abducting you to force you to be my undead bride, a cure for my loneliness with bolts in your neck? No, my dear; we aren't as quaint as you seem to think us. You're but a pawn, as you were before. A valuable pawn, that is; for the Legion will see that if demons can die permanently in fel saturation, their corpses can be raised if turned with necromancy prior to biological death."

"You bastard, you damnable bastard," Decarabia muttered. "The Legion is the only hope of the multiverse against the Void-"

"Quiet. My other minions need me."

Her jaw locked shut, Decarabia cursed him silently from the back of the saddle, hating every moment as she watched crossbow bolts pass through the bodies of the felguards. She'd set out to observe his troops, perhaps even obliterate him with her talent for fel magic. In the end, though, she found herself transformed into an abomination she'd been led to believe couldn't exist. The prophecy of the _Fallen_ Titan was...false.

Decarabia felt her face droop, the natural smirk disappearing. She was one of them now.


	8. The Center Breaks

Jogran floated next to Diabolikos, shadowing the leader of the company while scanning the immediate area for threats. Though there was plenty of action on the battlefield, the jailer's primary job was to prevent hostile targets from approaching Diabolikos and thus disrupting the commander's concentration. Jogran's attention was contained within a thirty yard radius that early in the battle; he knew his place in the hierarchy.

As he swept the area with his piercing gaze, he could overhear the somewhat heated conversation taking place.

"This strange magic is our challenge," Diabolikos said irately while observing the battle. "The first two rows have fallen - this is impossible without a new development in their arsenal."

The company's inquisitor, a shrewd analyst itself, floated on the other side of their commander. Its dry manner of speaking was slightly irritating to listen to, but its intelligence more than compensated for that.

"There does not appear to be any special characteristic to their attack," the inquisitor replied as the three of them stood behind the masses ranks of felguards. "Though their projectiles are fast, I don't sense any enchantments on their firing apparatuses."

Diabolikos growled his displeasure in the back of his throat. "What could it be? I've seen the mortals defeat disorganized foot soldiers at this speed, but not properly formed regiments. And..." The third rows of felguards on the outer flanks fell, sending the imps into a panic. "What are the officers doing? They need to push offensively!"

Jogran could sense his leader's frustration like waves of electric shocks. As devoted as he was to Diabolikos' security, there was little he could do in terms of allaying the master's concerns regarding the battle. A number of raucous phrases and slogans about the inevitable victory of the Legion passed through the jailer's mind, but all of them would result in further irritation on the dreadlord's part. Jagron chose silence as the best option, leaving the brains of the contingent to converse.

The imps on the outer flanks burned down the defenses of the undead only to be scared off, alongside the mortal warlocks, when the officers of those units were killed. The pace of the battle was fast, the outer flanks having fallen in the first minute. The formation of the undead moved to pinch the remaining felguards. Although they outnumbered the undead two to one, the losses shocked the jailor, and he could sense the ire of his leader rising.

Diabolikos grabbed one of the wyrmtongue slaves left by the Eredar overseer. "You. Inform the officers to assault the outer flanks of the mortals now," he said in a voice so civil that the wyrmtongue shivered, likely fearing what the calm facade concealed.

"Y-yes master!" the cowering member of the slave caste replied before scurrying away.

"Where is Decarabia? That scouting report she promised would be helpful at this time," Diabolikos asked rhetorically.

The sound of the battle finally reached them, putting Jogran on edge. The rows of wide wooden mantlets symbolizing the enemy were only in front of them, leaving their rear secure, but the sound of more felguards collapsing toward the outer flanks gave the jailer reason for alertness.

The group's inquisitor floated upward for a moment and thumbed its chin in hesitation. The wyrmtongue slave which Diabolikos had sent as a messenger had been shot by crossbows just after it delivered its message. The units of felguards which tried to press the enemy's outer flanks fell to the skeletons further toward the center; although their crossbows weren't as effective as Legion cannons, the tools were more advanced than what Jogran had seen from Azerothians.

The break in ranks created by falling felguards provided an opening to see the enemy more clearly, and the inquisitor became animated. "There she is! She's riding around our forward guard on a deathcharger."

"What!"

The inquisitor cluelessly floated down to Diabolikos, who honestly looked shocked for the first time in Jogran's memory. "She's riding around our forward-"

"That's not what I...silence!" the the dreadlord snapped. "Is she stealing the deathcharger?" he asked while stepping forward to get a better look himself.

Jogran hovered by the dreadlord's side, ever watchful of hidden assassins. Both of them caught a glimpse of a mounted enemy riding a horse with a person of a dull rust color sitting behind him. Diabolikos stopped and squinted, watching what appeared to be a rust-colored Eredar dismounting the horse among the skeleton units which were on the march.

"She looks like she's undead," the inquisitor said.

"That's impossible, demons can't be..." Diabolikos paused as if remembering a minor detail, then frowned irately for a few seconds. "This has to be a trick."

Jogran broke protocol and looked away from the immediate vicinity of his master for just a moment to see. A brown Eredar that vaguely resembled Decarabia walked away with strange, jerking movements from the mounted dark rider directing her. There was something wrong with whoever it was, though. The weird Eredar's entrails had been exposed, yet the abdominal muscles flexed and tightened without issue. The fingertips were missing, leaving bloodied sharp bones visible even from such a far distance. The eyes glowed an icy blue, shining even amid the flashes of crossbow bolts whizzing past her and turning the felguards into pincushions.

"How...?" Diabolikos murmured.

"The dark rider must be an elite enemy mob," the inquisitor replied.

Jogran winced, and Diabolikos and the inquisitor covered their ears, when a shrill scream broke out in the sky. Grey wings flapped and the imps scattered in all directions as a gargoyle swooped over the entire company. Whereas the little creatures had previously succeeded in holding the marching undead at bay even more effectively than the felguards, the shriek of the gargoyle worked as a sort of force multiplier against the swarm of imps. They panicked at the painfully loud sound, robbing the contingent of its ranged fighters all due to an ugly winged statue which wasn't even actually attacking anything; it was just screaming.

Diabolikos lifted a sword from a dead felguard and hurled it, sending the blade soaring upward and straight into the gargoyle's wing. The creature crashed on the ground with the sound of many breaking bones, but the damage had been done.

"The imps are fleeing," the inquisitor said.

"I can see that!" the dreadlord answered angrily.

"Pentatharon's forces have been overrun by orcs," it said again.

"I know what the color green looks like!" Diabolikos snapped again.

"Decarabia is undead and running at us with a frost mace ow-eyyeeeeooohhh!"

The inquisitor soared higher than the gargoyle had when Diabolikos punched it in the face. The limp body flailed like a rag doll as it flew over the horizon and into oblivion, ending the annoying voice of a gadfly. Unfortunately, there wasn't much time left to suggest a plan to his master, because Decarabia was running at them fast.

"Jogran, handle her - I need to go to the frontlines myself!"

Diabolikos said hurriedly as he flapped his wings upward and darted over the undead Eredar's head.

Decarabia hissed as she watched the dreadlord land among the shivarra officers. Obviously spurned by her longtime archenemy's ignoring her to focus on the battle, the Eredar opened her mouth for a cry of anger, but her voice projected as a groan rather than a yell. Although the ragged face vaguely resembled the Eredar who'd oppressed his master so long, Jogran didn't recognize the voice, the movements, or the behavior.

"Lay down your arms; we can still find a way to reverse this," Jogran said as the undead Eredar appeared conflicted between attacking the jailer or pursuing the dreadlord. "The Legion needs you-"

"Sargeras has lied," Decarabia interrupted in a pained voice. Despite her blasphemous statement, Jogran could see the despair in her offensively bright eyes. "History isn't marching to an inevitable end...beings exercise free will, and this undead has proven that."

As much as Jogran had never liked her for her oppression against Diabolikos, the jailer still felt an obligation to the Dark Titan's vision to preserve their ranks. "They're brainwashing you; wake up!" he urged. "Just get down on the ground with your hands behind your head-"

"We aren't immortal, you fool! Our ranks dying in the fel saturation are gone...I am gone. Death will consume us as it does them." Crazed and jerky, Decarabia raised her mace. "Death will consume all...only the stage in between can save us."

Closing the palm of his hand, Jogran began to cast a shadow bolt while stalling her. "This is propaganda; don't believe them. We can reverse the process, or perform a...mercy killing HI-YA!"

His shadow bolt was perfectly timed, flying at her like a felbat with an ingrown talon and striking her in the chest. Unfortunately, the undead also seemed to have strong resistance to shadow magic, and she stumbled backward only two steps before catching herself and reacting with a shadow bolt of her own.

The demon's shadow resistance helped him to take the surprise bolt, and though Jogran whirled in a half circle like a poorly thrown softball for half a second, he wasn't hurt too badly.

She tried to charge at him, receiving another shadow bolt that pushed her back. She cast a shadow bolt too instead of charging, knocking him around.

So he casted a shadow bolt.

So she casted a shadow bolt.

So he casted a shadow bolt.

So she casted a shadow bolt.

So he dropped his hands in surrender just as she fell into his felforged prison.

Fiery bars materialized out of thin air, sort of like watching paper burn to ash but in reverse. The unholy metal twisted and bent to fit the shape of her limbs as she thrashed. Her teeth gnashed in anger despite the neurological problem in her lips which undeath hadncursed her with, and she flailed in the glowing grey and green cage so severely that she sliced up her skin on the edges of the bars.

"You too will die, Jogran!" Decarabia groaned while bucking against the conjured cage.

Her reaction, or lack thereof, worried the jailer. Decarabia's haughtiness and pomp should have sent her into a screaming fit; he'd just surprised her twice by casting slow, timed spells and the felforged cage was quite serious. The metal didn't even move as she thrashed, just as it wouldn't even for a giant. There was something wrong with her reactions.

"And I will come back. As will you." He raised his hand, palm facing downward, conjuring an executioner's axe from fel fire and brimstone. "Rejoice in your new birth; be cleansed and-"

"May you never see the clear light of fel fire."

Jogran didn't even make a noise when the headsplitting pain stabbed him in the middle of the eyes. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he floated backward and gasped, feeling a few salty tears dripping from his eyes due to the pain. When he tried to see what she was doing that was causing his conjured prison to screech like peeled metal, all he could see was a blur of green, grey, and red.

Her curse. Decarabia was unique among fel magic practicioners in that all of her curses were phrased in the negative. She wasn't a true fighter, and a curse which was too extensive and encompassing wouldn't last for long, but her negation had been enough in Jogran's case to blind him due to all of the imps scattering about and leaving trails of fel flames behind them. The pain resided, but the blindness did not.

"Decarabia, fight their control! Let the lust and wrath of the Legion purge the cold nihilism of undeath, as it does to the empty asceticism of the Light-"

Jogran didn't make a noise when she hit him, either. However, he most certainly did feel it when a freezing cold mace broke his arm, just as he most certainly felt his back slamming into the ground. His prison spells were top notch; how could she have dispelled it?

Her telekinesis pulled him back toward her as he tried to crawl away. His race could float, but as long as he was in contact with the ground, she could force him to move by sheer power of will. Rolling on instinct, he felt the ground vibrate as she slammed her mace into it mere inches from his head. A single heave with his hands helped him to float up into the air, making him immune to her specific type of telekinesis again. He had to figure out, somehow, a way to keep her busy and away from Diabolikos yet also avoid dying until all threats to the dreadlord had been eliminated.

As he floated in a quick circle and dodged the ice cold rushes of air swinging at the back of his head, Jogran though up the dumbest idea he'd ever had. Considering the fact that he needed to see to enact a more intelligent plan, the dumb idea didn't seem so bad. His hand began to conjure a combination of shadow and fel energy as well as enough materialized physical metal as he could. He just needed her to miss one more time...

His faith was energized when his silent prayer was answered. He felt her miss in her swing again and spun around in the opposite direction of her mace, putting a good distance between the two of them. When he was turned to face where he could hear her groaning coming from, he dropped down and sat on the ground with his torso.

Like clockwork, she yanked him back to her with the powers of her mind, tickling him with weightlessness and anxiety as he felt himself pulled. Fighting off fear when he felt the cold wind of her mace approaching him, he opened his palm and released his spell as they collided.

Decarabia's mace caught Jogran flush on his shoulder, collar bone, and chest. Though he'd been tortured by other jailers as initiation each time he'd received a promotion, he hadn't been on the receiving end of pain in many long years. He finally screamed, unused to the sensation that tore into him. He felt as if he were being ripped in half even though the weapon was a blunt object, and he fell to the ground with Decarabia on top of him. When her telekinesis stopped pulling on him, however, he calmed down and opened his eyes to check if he'd succeeded.

His blindness was fading.

A cold, stiff body lay on top of him, barely moving as it moaned. Despite the multiple complex fractures he'd suffered, Jogran wiped his bleary eyes and pushed the body off of him. With his head on the ground, he caught an upside-down glimpse of the battle to the south where Lothros and his contingent lay on the ground full of arrows, surrounded by many purple elves. When he raised his head up, he could see a right-side-up image of Decarabia laying next to him, her eyes dull and without light as her corpse stared up into the sky. The felforged knife Jogran has conjured in his hand at the last minute was still stuck in her sternum, plunged in so deeply that it had pierced her upper body and severed her spinal cord.

The dumbest idea he'd ever had...had worked.

Moaning with his mouth closed, the jailer forced himself to float off the ground again, eyeing the dead Eredar warily in case it was all an act. But it wasn't; Decarabia was dead, and her body wasn't dematerializing into the Twisting Nether. The situation was very wrong, and it confused him.

Breathing heavily, Jogran turned toward his master to see the last lines of felguards retreating.

"We can die! The mortals spoke the truth!" one of the foot soldiers cried while fleeing the battlefield, only to be killed anyway when Diabolikos snapped its neck in front of the others.

"Cowards! Do not believe their lies! Get back into the battle or face the wrath of the Sisters of Torment!" the dreadlord yelled.

Another felguard actually succeeded in slipping past him, running past the skeleton soldiers which actually ignored it and let it escape. "Torment is better than perma-death!" it cried.

"You can't die permanently, our engineers have harnessed the world-soul! It is limitless in power! GET BACK HERE!"

Diabolikos' cry wasn't entirely lost on deaf ears. A few disorganized felguards, maybe two dozen, launched themselves at the undead army. The arcanite rain of crossbow bolts wouldn't cease, though, and the most progress they made prior to falling was to charge around the sides of the wooden mantlets and then get killed by spears.

Jogran stood stupefied; he didn't know what to do. Even as a living shield, there was little he could do to protect Diabolikos. The dreadlord was in much better condition than him.

"It's a shame we won't be able to take her all the way to the Burning Throne."

If Jogran has been stupefied before, he was frozen now. He didn't recognize the voice, though it sounded wispy and hollow. Nobody had been near him, at least immediately after his vision had returned. Spooked and moving slowly, he turned around to see who'd snuck up on him.

It was a human, albeit one the size of Diabolikos. The woman had paper white skin and jet black hair, with folded wings and a helmet covering her eyes. Even when her eyes were covered, though, Jogran could detect the sick sense of humor on the curled black lips and clenched white teeth.

"Got ya," Runa whispered.

The val'kyr's battle axe was faster than Jogran's conjured axe. It was also the last thing he saw before she split him down the middle.


	9. Commanders Collide

"No...impossible..."

For many long millennia, Diabolikos had suffered at the bottom of the nathrezim hierarchy. Though he certainly wasn't alone, and their ranks contained their fair share of poor performers, the view from the ground wasn't pleasant. Every time the Burning Legion had destroyed a world, it was he and his peers who were just behind the front lines, absorbing the brunt of inevitable losses in an army which distinguished itself by treating personnel as expendable. True, he'd contributed to demonic victories in terms of shielding the upper echelons as a living shield, but that also meant he was designated as the perennial loser. Such losses were inevitable in any realistic military conflict; there were no perfect victories in real life.

But this...this was completely different.

More Legion ships exploded in the sky. Most of them floated in suspension above the surface of Argus, though a few crashed to the ground many miles away. The number of felbats and even doomguards dropping dead from the sky amounted to almost half that of his deceased felguard troops, driving home the point that there would be neither aerial nor artillery support. The space beyond the gates of the Burning Throne were empty, further emphasizing the fact that Diabolikos was on his own.

With his bodyguard at least protecting his flank, the dreadlord turned his attention to the front lines. His felguards were more ancient than Kil'jaeden, having spent thousands of years performing military drills and honing their skills. Their reaction time was shorter than the Kaldorei, their strength was greater than that of the Eredar, their toughness was more stalwart than that of the orcs. As an infantry-based fighting force, they were unparalleled.

Yet they were slaughtered in less than an hour by ranged enemy infantry.

With a handful of his felguards retreating and the rest of them falling to enemy spears and bolts, Diabolikos had to think fast. He grabbed a gnome warlock who he'd gang-pressed into joining the company and held the small lady by the collar of her robe.

"Wild imps! Summon more wild imps among their ranks!"

"But wild imps won't be directly under my controooooooooool!"

The gnome soared through the air when he tossed her, landing among the ranks of skeletons with a painful thud. Crying in pain, she called down demonic meteors from the sky not out of obedience to her master, but simply fear of the orc skeleton about to step on her. The meteors hit a few of the undead troops, though to the dreadlord's dismay the skeletons were sturdier than he'd expected and got back up. When the meteors burst open, however, miniature bursts of fel fire struck the armaments and defenses of an entire column of undead, leaving the gnome to ironically be saved from the skeletons but killed by the unbound imps.

"Kennedy, remove your first column! Wong, rotate your unit to six o'clock and pinch those imps! Geists, hunt them down!"

Diabolikos growled at how swiftly the skeletons maneuvered to counteract the disorganized swarm of imps among their ranks, all directed unblinkingly by a series of undead knights commanding each unit. They were former mortals, far less experienced than the shivarra officers Diabolikos had led, yet the rotten mounted officers responded to the speaker more efficiently than the shivarra had, and the skeletons were more exact in their timing than the felguards despite being brainless puppets.

In anger, Diabolikos turned to face the speaker: the dark rider who'd led Decarabia to attack him. The dreadlord wasn't surprised by her betrayal given the Eredar's hatred for him, but to see her actually leave the Legion demonstrated a strong ability for brainwashing on the part of the undead. If the dark rider commanding the undead troops was the head of the snake, it would have to be cut to salvage whatever possible from a poorly planned, understaffed, undersupplied battle.

Insolent to the core, the dark rider dismounted his undead horse and strode forward, ignoring the last surviving felguards and even his own troops as he passed them. He looked to have been a former human given the body type vaguely discernible beneath the plate armor. That was for the better - humans were small, impetuous, and overconfident to the extreme.

Diabolikos waited patiently, measuring the black knight's movements as the gap between them closed. Although there was a certain fluidity which the rank and file lacked, he also noticed the slight jerkiness which all of the walking dead were afflicted with. Hands empty, the undead human didn't stop approaching, garnering an amused chuckle from the dreadlord. Diabolikos sidestepped him, forcing both of them to walk sideways, in parallel of each other, for the sake of inspecting the primary target.

The battle hadn't technically finished around them. If Diabolikos could just lead him into harm's way, or keep him distracted for a tactical strike...

"You think Decarabia won't be back?" Diabolikos taunted.

Icy blue eyes that shined with a primitive intelligence but not true understanding stared back at him. They were rather stupid creatures, and the dreadlord could only assume that the black knight was merely planning the right time to leap for an immediate kill shot. He'd seen it among their kind before.

Stupidly stubborn globes of ice flickered. "She's gone," the black knight.

From the corner of his eye, Diabolikos noticed that he was leading the death knight directly toward the gates of Antorus and the plain at the foot of the Burning Throne beyond. Like an uppity black sheep, the death knight followed the dreadlord further and further away from the battle, leaving him to deal with the snakehead more easily. He couldn't have asked for a better opponent.

Sounds from the battlefield became muffled, leaving the two of them to their relative isolation. In their wake, the last escaping felguards and satyr attempted to flee behind Diabolikos' own company, only to join his felguards in throwing themselves into a corner. There were no other options left for the dreadlord: he had to destroy the undead commander if he wanted to stop the undead army.

Probing for any angle from which he could unsettle the nearly brainless corpse, Diabolikos watched the death knight's strides as they sidestepped each other. On every third step, the undead human's right arm dipped a little lower than usual. The disparity in distance from the man's sword hilt was minor, inches perhaps, but Diabolikos had a few millennia of experience on him. The dreadlord could strike faster than the human could defend.

Holding his head and neck steady while measuring, the dreadlord continued to sidestep and allowed his hand to flow forward. All four of his fingers remained loose, granting no outward signal of an assault even as he prepared to claim the black knight's arm as a trophy. Tearing outward at sharp angles from his fingertips, Diabolikos' talons gleamed in the dim light reaching them from the battlefield, yet the natural weapons concealed any hint of his intentions. So swift was the sweeping motion of his hand that the undead knight would have no time to realistically unsheath his sword entirely, ensuring a clear strike at his elbow. Even if he had the sense to dodge, his human height was so diminutive that he'd still fall within the dreadlord's greater reach. Whether he reached for his sword and offered his elbow, or stepped backward and offered his shoulder, the knight was about to lose his offensive capability.

Sacrificial lamb to the very end, the black knight reached for his sword, offering up his limb for easy severance. Diabolikos struck, fluidly raking his talons toward the joint and even chuckling to himself when the former human continued unsheathing the sword. If the miserable walking corpse thought he would have enough time to actually wield the weapon, then he was in for an unpleasant surprise.

Except that he didn't.

Rather than continue pulling the weapon from its scabbard, the knight in black rotated his frame a quarter of an inch, holding hisground yet turning his targeted joint away from the dreadlord. So fast had Diabolikos rushed to strike that he'd leaned a little too much weight into the swipe, leaving his rear leg unweighted. Unable to pull back without falling over, the dreadlord could only hiss in the back of his throat as his talons missed the undead knight's elbow and met the sword blade instead. Infuriating beyond description, the undead knight remained perfectly still, almost grandstanding as it stared at the demon ramming an outstretched hand into a finely sharpened sword. The undead human had somehow noticed the movement and had unsheathed his sword only halfway as a defensive measure, not a reactionary misstep.

Diabolikos watched as three of his four fingers drove themselves into the edge of the sword before he could react, stinging him with a surprisingly minor amount of pain as the extremities were severed in clean wounds. Only his thumb intact, the demon continued leaning in to the blow lest he suffer a counterattack, spinning away and jumping back. Green fel blood spurted from his three knuckles and then dripped onto the rocky ground of Antorus, evaporating quickly alongside the dematerializing severed fingers.

Cheeky and pompous like a satyr prince, the death knight continued to stare the demon down, even resheathing its sword as if the duel had completed. The two of them stared at each other beneath the gates, every sound from the battle muffled. A fel explosion on the field lit up the darkness beneath the gates, leaving only the silhouettes of a demon and a knight for a few seconds as they engaged in a staring contest.

"Clever," Diabolikos muttered acrimoniously.

As if the black knight couldn't enrage the demon any more, he answered so aptly that Diabolikos almost felt jealous. "Not really," the black knight replied.

Gritting his teeth until his fangs showed, Diabolikos cursed the insolent corpse in the name of whatever was listening. His anger radiated from his being in waves, like a hot aura that combined the contradiction of heat and shadows. Even after the explosions behind them had ceased, a different type of darkness filled the empty space beneath the gates. His visage exchanged its pallor for a living blackness that crept all around them, spreading across the ground so subtly that even others of his kind wouldn't have noticed.

"You fool...you sorry fool...you don't realize that you're still a puppet?" the demon asked.

Pleased when his words impacted the undead knight with the desired affect, Diabolikos was still confused about the answer. "I realize that more than ever," the former human replied in a startlingly deep voice. "And the puppeteers have their own strings."

"Then why don't you cut yours?" Diabolikos asked sincerely. " _Join_ us. Don't you see what you're doing? You, and all of the people on your planet, have already lost to the Old Gods. Every one of your leaders, from the dragons to the wild gods - all of them are aiding the Void. You're opposing the only force which can realistically purge the multiverse of its single greatest threat."

If Diabolikos wasn't certain of the stupidity of humans and former humans previously, he was when he received his answer. So stupefied was the cretin that he didn't even realize the growing darkness around them.

"You're wrong, sir. The only force which can stop the false gods who cannot die is a force which itself has transcended death. And as you've seen...not even demons can escape death."

"That's preposterous. You're mad," Diabolikos replied in frustration - at both the knight's delusions and its thanklessness. "These are tricks and nothing more. We've harnessed the world-soul of Argus, thus our ranks will still be born again."

Arrogant beyond what could have been sane for such a short-lived species, the undead human unsheathed its arming sword fully. "The rumors are true. Demons will die forever when destroyed in fel saturation," he repeated like a sheep.

"You...argh. Do you realize the offer I'm extending? Do you realize how few people from your planet are offered a place among the Legion? Do you even understand what a bargain you're rejecting?"

Irritatingly blue eyes flickered. "The damned make no choices," the death knight replied.

Diabolikos snorted indignantly. Of all the ways he hadn't expected to have been surprised, his own miscalculation of a potential pawn was high on the list. As a strategist, he would have loved to tempt the undead commander away from whatever wraith was in control of the walking dead at the time; as a tactician, though, he should have known better. Biting back on the bitterness of rejection, the dreadlord took solace in the fact that none of his peers were present to witness his blunder and then summarily focused his resentment on the undead knight.

Ignoring the pain in his fingerless hand and clenching his other hand into a fist, Diabolikos sought an end to the annoying exchange. "As you wish," he told the apparently hollow commander.

The tendons in the dreadlord's wrist audibly strained as he took control of the corporeal darkness surrounding them. Like a spherical tidal wave, the darkness he'd conjured pushed past the natural shadows and collapsed inward on the death knight much in the manner that a dying star would. The simpleton didn't even realize what was happening as each individual finger on the dreadlord's intact hand directed various waves of the parasitic darkness. Ravenous and almost sentient on its own, the carrion-feeding blob from which no light could escape honed in on the grey flesh of the former human, seeking to shred all remaining organic matter for the sake of healing Diabolikos of his injury. The sneak attack was perfectly planned and executed.

Yet nothing was happening. The darkness stopped just feet away from the surface of the death knight's body, forming a clear sphere around the vague outline of the knight when the vampiric aura failed to penetrate an invisible barrier.

An anti-magic shell. Diabolikos roller his eyes; the walking corpse was proving to be a much bigger headache than the dreadlord had expected.

Whether the death knight had cast the shell surreptitiously, or if there was simply a constant layer of magic resistance surrounding him, Diabolikos did not know. He did know, however, that their kind often did employ such tricks. Perhaps he should have anticipated the defense system, but there would be time later to review his mistakes and refine his combat tactics against death knights. In the meantime, he had a serpent to dedapitate.

Ushering his anger at the pain in his bloody knuckles out of his mind, the dreadlord subtly dig his hooves into the gravel. Whether former human or current, all mortals of the death knight's kind lacked the patience for a properly executed duel. Diabolikos nearly rolled his eyes when the death knight actually folded one hand behind his back and wielded the arming sword as if they were about to engage in a fencing match. The audacity of the move was almost as insulting as the mere fact that their conflict had degenerated to melee in the first place.

Silent and undetectable, Diabolikos allowed cold rationality to take over his actions was he crouched. Before the knight could even raise the sword for a decent defense, the demon feinted right as a distraction and exploited his opponent's sideways stance. The knight took the bait, leaning to the demon's right and leaving the left undefended. Diabolikos used only the most effortless flap of his wings to dash to the side, maneuvering to his opponent's back without even putting himself directly in the line of attack. So assured was he that the knight would seek an easy strike up high that, when the knight struck low instead, the dreadlord cursed himself for assuming too much.

"Grrrrr..." Diabolikos growled when the runed sword cut into his calf.

Momentary pain gave way to a greater sense of satisfaction when he slammed into the death knight. Even when hurt and limping, the dreadlord was large enough to knock the undead human to the ground and achieve a dominant position. His opponent actually managed to flip sideways, amusing the dreadlord with the futile attempt at survival. Even when injured, he could most certainly end the undeath of a comparatively young creature only half his weight.

Diabolikos grabbed the knight by the helmet, leaving any sort of taunts for later. Many a dark lord had fallen when explaining his devious plan to his opponent, and Diabolikos wasn't about to squander his opportunity after an otherwise embarrassing loss on the battlefield. He had to end this quick, and he squeezed the plate helmet in an attempt to break it. The metal had been forged well, and even when the pain in his leg and his other hand motivated him to muscle into the move, he only found his fingertips bruised by the effort.

Fair enough. He had other ways. Pressing down with his talons, Diabolikos scraped the surface of the helmet, leaving grey streaks as he tried to scratch the metal open. The plate screeched but didn't give way, leaving the dreadlord to attempt to blind his opponent. The openings on the viewing grill of the helmet proved to be too small for the dreadlord's talons, leaving the avenue of eye gouging cut off. Moving downward, Diabolikos tried to open the undead knight's neck; that wouldn't lead to immediate death, but it would make breaking the revenant's neck easier. A firm plate neck guard covered a similarly well-crafted coif that prevented the move, however, and another avenue of attack was cut off.

Growling in frustration again, Diabolikos cursed whoever had forged the death knight's armor set. One single undead former mortal has no right to provide such trouble when being killed, and the dreadlord wondered if the knight could possibly be raised again later and sent to the Sisters of Torment for punishment. This duel was proving to be far more of a headache indeed.

Clenching his fist, Diabolikos surrendered himself to slaying an enemy in an even older fashioned way. Plate armor could protect the wearer from his talons, but not from enough blunt force trauma. He'd have to bash the death knight's helmet against the ground until it broke open. The method was so unsophisticated that the dreadlord would feel embarrassed to tell any of his peers; perhaps he'd invent a tale later about having hatched a plan to infect the corpse's nearly hollow mind with paranoia and...

...wait. The death knight wasn't moving.

Staring down at his opponent, Diabolikos noticed that the two Ice were still flickering an icy blue, signaling that the duel wasn't over yet...but his opponent still wasn't struggling. It just...laid there. This wasn't right at all. Unclenching his fist due to the consistent pain, the dreadlord noticed that the bruises on his fingertips still remained. Demonic healing was swift and unnatural; rather than normally mending, wounds simply disappeared as cells and organic tissue was reborn in fel fire. Yet both of the dreadlord's hands were in pain.

Embers floated upwards into Diabolikos' field of vision, dancing in the air as they rose despite the still air beneath the gates. Tiny flakes began to defy gravity in greater numbers, along with the odor of tar, alerting him to a sort of trickery even he would have to respect. The cinders were piebald save the afterburn of green fel fire, though the heat was weak and rapidly dying down. More of the embers floated up just as the same time that the pain in his bloodied knuckles ceased, and Diabolikos began to worry.

Holding up his injured hand, he found that his demonic healing had failed him; in fact, he was _more_ injured than he'd been just moments ago. Instead of burning green with the rebirth of cell tissue, his hand was dematerializing as if returning to the Twisting Nether. Except, instead of returning for rebirth, he was simply losing pieces of himself. His skin smoldered with green and blue lights, rapidly withering like paper on a fire and then flaking away. He watched numbly as the bones of his hand were exposed, his knuckles having already crumbled to cinders, and a cold sensation ran up his arm. A similar feeling spread from the cut on his leg, and although he couldn't see it due to the position he was kneeling in, he noticed that he was painlessly losing feeling in his calf as well. The dark grey stone of the ground was, itself, writhing as if affected by a chemical process, and a deathly circle of cold surrounded them.

Amazed by the sight of his own hand burning into nothing in the absence of heat, the dreadlord could only stare and tell himself that it was just an illusion.

"What...what is this..."

While he tried to convince himself that he hadn't actually been caught in the undead knight's shockingly potent death and decay spell, Diabolikos noticed his opponent shift beneath him. The death knight had remained passive throughout the dreadlord's while attempt to deal the coup de grace, but when the undead human finally did move, Diabolikos was again shocked by how easily he was moved.

Rolling over in his back and grabbing Diabolikos by the bruised fingers, the death knight grabbed the runed sword and stared up with those flickering eyes.

"Death always wins," the man in black said.

In one fluid motion, the former human just half the dreadlord's size reached up and stabbed his arming sword all the way through Diabolikos' bicep, one of the few areas which were unarmored. The blade sliced into the meat at an odd angle, but when Diabolikos felt no pain, he panicked. Flapping his wings to jump away, he landed across the width of the gate, falling to one knee when his injured leg broke beneath his weight.

For ten millennia, he'd served he Legion. Not always faithfully, especially as of late, but he'd served. No matter how much resentment he bore, no matter how torn his loyalties were, such a relationship couldn't be severed so easily. But when he watched the death knight rise unharmed, and when he saw the skeleton soldiers march behind their leader over the still corpses of felguards, Diabolikos knew that the end of Argus had arrived. He hadn't believed in the prophecies of Sargeras in a very long time, but merely on a non-religious process of rationality, he'd never expected the Legion to fall to mortals and their risen corpses. In a matter of seconds, though, the living mortals would join the undead and storm the Burning Throne unimpeded, sweeping over the Fallen Titan and the Legion's finest defenders as they had done to other opponents. The might of an intergalactic force which had theoretically unlimited troop numbers and the experience of wiping out so many other insolent planets with more magical and technological power than Azeroth...had fallen. All because of a bunch of short-lived simpletons who didn't even realize they were just pawns of the Void Lords.

The Void...what Sargeras feared the most. It would win. Not even the Protoss would stand up to it in the end. And unlike Sargeras, Diabolikos actually knew about that.

He could nurse the pain of separation from his planet, people, and purpose later. For now, there was a plague coursing through his veins, and his warp stone could open a personal gate leading him to the One who could reverse the process. He'd be severed from the rest of his kind forever, but as he'd learned in the multiverse, there were demons he could join elsewhere.

Flapping his wings again, Diabolikos fled, leaving the skeletons to slowly march toward the throne of the master he'd failed. Crashing into the ground dozens of yards away, he frantically grasped for the stone on his belt and activated it. If the Burning Legion would fall for Sargeras' arrogance and fanaticism, he wasn't about to be a sacrificial lamb.

The dreadlord disappeared in a purple flash, leaving the world of Warcraft forever.


	10. No Thanks

Garamonde allowed his deathcharger to trot slowly, viewing the amassed ranks of his victorious troops. Ever conscientious of the commander's mystique even among his mere five sentient officers, he said nothing to them as he observed, waiting for them to speak.

"No losses," Harris said when he passed the doll-faced horror's unit. Garamonde nodded and moved along.

"No losses," Dawn said when he passed the ancient elf's unit. Garamonde nodded and moved along.

"Five mantlets and four spears lost," Wong said when he passed the human from Pandaria's unit. Garamonde nodded and moved along.

"Six mantlets, seven spears, and one crossbow lost," Kennedy said when he passed the skinless terror's unit. Garamonde nodded and moved along.

"Five mantlets and four spears lost," Montagnard said when he passed his former squire's unit. Garamonde nodded and moved along.

"Three! Two ghouls and one geist lost, lost," Brittany the geist sputtered when he passed the laborers. Garamonde nodded and returned to the front and center of his company.

With a hundred ice-blue eyes focused on him, the Ebon Blade's most successful field commander smiled grimly beneath his helmet. He hated his class hall and those in charge of it, but if there was one form of solace he could take, it was knowing that he'd just eliminated a Burning Legion contingent twice the size of his own without losing a single soldier.

His trusted val'kyr battlemaiden floated next to him, empty handed as she awaited orders. Unlike the others, he spoke to her often, taking her as his only truly sentient confidant.

"They did well," he murmured with pride.

"It was fun," the val'kyr replied, grinning deviously.

"Runa, signal for them to stand at attention but remain alert."

"Yes sir," she replied. She conjured a light grey battle standard and planted it in the ground.

Off in the distance, Garamonde watched his colleagues pick up after their respective victories. The Horde had suffered heavy losses yet seemed in high spirits, and per orcish custom, were burying their dead directly on the battlefield. The Sentinels had suffered fewer losses, but appeared to be disputing among themselves. Garamonde's two undead orc raiders rode over to him, ever the diligent intelligence gatherers.

"The Horde has forgotten about you already," the male raider said.

"Good," Garamonde replied without hesitation.

"The Sentinels have not," the female raider said. "Their commander had to silence their younger troops who spoke of an attack after the demons fell."

"Don't cease monitoring them," Garamonde replied.

The post-battle pause while waiting for reinforcements didn't last long. Their entire purpose has been to unblock the path toward the Burning Throne for reinforcements that were slightly delayed. They only had to wait there for another hour...and the undead were familiar with the task of waiting.

By the time the first allied troops began marching over the horizon, the Sentinels had regrouped and prepared their dead for transportation. Garamonde watched them jealously, though the shallow battlefield graves of the Horde certainly piqued his interest. The rush of glory seekers after the hard work had been done, however, didn't.

Cheering and singing as if they'd achieved anything up to that point, they came. Leading comparatively smaller bands of unaffiliated heroes and class order hall officials, the notables of Azeroth came. The Earthen Ring, the Black Harvest, Alleria, Turalyon, Illidan - they all marched triumphantly after having observed from the safety of the Justicaar and done nothing in particular to assist in clearing the gates. The Unseen Path has at least disabled the Legion's artillery, but true to their name, they were unseen and supposedly suffered catastrophic losses, if the intelligence the undead orc raiders had gathered was true. Aside from them (and the Deathlord, that useless fraud), the company that couldn't number even fifty seemed to include most of the VIPs from the Justicaar minus Velen. They cheered at the three companies who'd opened the gate as they passed by, though none of them applauded. Garamonde was quick to notice that.

As the newcomers continued their pompous strut toward the Burning Throne, Garamonde gripped his staff a little more tightly in ire. Arriving just in time to take all the credit, the notables and dignitaries would engage in the same ritual they had so many times. They would face immeasurably powerful entities with far too few soldiers, suffering serious losses of unknown bodyguards who would be mourned for a day and then promptly forgotten because a faction leader would suffer a minor injury and face an existential crisis. The heroes would then invariably call down for tactical strikes which they'd carefully hidden from the rank and file, or open lines of communication to all sorts of demigods and false idols to pray for miracles that simply weren't available except when woefully undermanned missions including the aforementioned VIPs encountered Legion commanders whose heads would be recognizable on pikes in factional capitals. Garamonde has witnessed the same shameful scenario many times before, and his joy upon his company's well-earned victory was hampered.

An energetic little bird landed on the ground next to him, looking at him and bouncing around before transforming in a puff of smoke. Like a surprise gift he didn't particularly want, Khadgar was standing on foot next to the death knight, almost mimicking the mounted knight's pose down to the way the smiling archmage was gripping his staff more tightly than his facial expression called for. All the still living human needed was a horse with barding in matching colors and the two of them would be proper opposites.

Watching as the factional celebrities and all their fanfare marched on, Khadgar breathed easily, a signal that the hard part had been completed before the raid group even arrived. Garamonde tried to remain stiff as the two of them stood side by side, hoping that his living counterpart would feel awkward and move along. Unfortunately, Khadgar was either bad at taking hints or just really wanted to talk.

"I _knew_ we could do it...the Light hasn't forsaken us," Khadgar said, somewhat thoughtlessly in his choice of words.

Repressing old pains upon the phrasing the archmage used, Garamonde gave up on trying to broadcast his displeasure. "I hope," the death knight said.

"It hasn't - so many worlds fell before ours, but the Army of the Light has answered our prayers. I imagine a raid group this size will end Sargeras' reign of terror before you and your troops even reach the Justicaar."

Turning toward him with the innocent hope of a child, Khadgar attempted to gain the death knight's attention as if he was about to convey revelation from the heavens. "And you too, Commander Garamonde; your efforts contributed to this by opening the path for the raid. That won't be quickly forgotten."

Tired of the empty promises and theatrics, Garamonde couldn't maintain the facade of compliance any longer. "Yes it will," he cynically replied.

"Of course, and...wait, what?"

Realizing he'd opened a can of worms with a perennial optimist, Garamonde tried to play off his own thoughtlessness. "All things are eventually forgotten," he said.

His noncommittal answer only emboldened the archmage, legitimately upsetting a man whose worldview must have depended on screening out opposing views. "No, no, what do you mean? Surely, the heroism of those who protect the sanctity of our world will live on forever. People pass on, but their deeds will be known!" Khadgar appeared to be sincerely offended, and consequently failed another time to remember that he was speaking to the undead.

Stung again by the poor choice of words, the man in black simply sought s dignified end to the discussion. He had no ego to defend; not anymore.

"You really believe that?" was all he could commit to saying.

"I truly do; with all my heart," Khadgar replied. The living human's eyes lit up like those of s child. "The libraries of Dalaran are full of the annals of those who've contributed to our world's salvation; how could they not be? All of those who aid the forces of good, they can't be forgotten. We can't give up hope that our efforts shall be remembered!"

The tone of Khadgar's voice had actually decreased in pitch, sort of like a motivational speaker addressing a topic more serious than their usual fare. It was almost painful to listen to, and Garamonde wondered how easy it would be to shatter the worldview of such a high ranking member of the Kirin Tor. How could a man who'd witnessed so much conflict in the world be so hopelessly naive?

In the end, the black knight relented. He'd gain nothing by pushing a friendly face into sleepless nights doubting the nature of truth and reality.

"Thank you," Garamonde replied dryly. He even turned his head slightly to regard the archmage, receiving an unwanted clap on the shoulder for it.

"You've been a valued member of this expedition; I'm honored to have met you," Khadgar said, seeking the sort of deft exit Garamonde envied once the former had received a validation of his beliefs. He also forgot again that they'd already met; how a person could forget another who'd once pressed a sword to his neck was beyond Garamonde, but he was beyond caring if he could escape the fairytale perspective of the world and return to his ire. "Now, I must catch up with the tail end of the raid group. The Burning Throne awaits!"

Garamonde didn't say another word as the archmage shapeshifted into a bird again and flew after the rest of the self-important VIPs marching into the seat of the Burning Legion. He continued watching just to be sure that nobody else planned on bothering him with their need for an echo chamber, just waiting on a hill overlooking the disappearing raid group. Runa floated beside him and landed, maintaining the silence for only a few moments.

"He's not going to remember, is he?" she asked.

"He's not," Garamonde replied without skipping a beat.

"Well, we could either be forgotten now or in a tome collecting dust on some shelf in Dalaran."

"Yes, it isn't really a better prospect."

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

He tapped a finger on his staff and thought for a moment. She waited patiently until he found an answer, as did his officers. The undead never tired of waiting.

"We'll return to where the Justicaar has landed. Once ley lines are reopened back to Azeroth, Whitemane is most likely to open a death gate there."

Runa frowned as he ordered the company to march east. "This seems rather unfair," she sighed.

Again without missing a beat, Garamonde had an answer. "They'll die of old age anyway. And then we can claim their corpses as troops." He glances to the side past her grin to the shallow battlefield graves the Horde had dug for their fallen. "And we can take those too if everybody else disperses early enough."

Deprived of thanks they might have preferred, the unnamed company of walking dead marched east, prepares to wait until the next orders from Acherus arrived. The Legion was gone, but their enemies were endless.

That was fine by Garamonde. He was waiting.


End file.
